


Sweet Dreams

by Sculpts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Masturbation, a.k.a sherlock having a dream about banging john!!, even though i'm too wooby to actually write properly explicit material, sex dream!!!!!!, sorry if you came here expecting something more explicit, using the explicit rating for safety's sake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2580206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sculpts/pseuds/Sculpts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes round to the faint taste of mint and a stale day, the sticky grog of sleep clamming at the seam of his lips.  It’s hardly ever that he wakes up like this anymore, hardly ever he wakes up at all before a full eight hours have passed, so this, this…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams

Sherlock comes round to the faint taste of mint and a stale day, the sticky grog of sleep clamming at the seam of his lips. It’s hardly ever that he wakes up like this anymore, hardly ever he wakes up at all before a full eight hours have passed, so this, _this_ …

 

Muddled, he chases after the ghost of something that dances just out of his reach. There were… oh, _what_ were there, there were-- hands. There were hands, yes. Hands. Hands that found themselves everywhere. Hands that skimmed, flitted from arms to chest to hair to lips, each moment its own scene caught in a snapshot, lived infinitely and barely at all. Slowly, lazily, his hand takes a tour around the sites phantom hands had visited, drifting up to trail his palm over the fabric of his sleep shirt, down to slip under it and run light pointer finger circles around his navel.

 

There was a strong body. A chest, the firm flat press of it close and the sharp, soft (sharp or soft? sharp or… dreams dance, who is Sherlock to care) lines of it stretching above him whenever there was space. Hips. Thighs. Sherlock’s own hips roll, tiny undulations, the comforting sensation of fabric friction better than nothing while his mind conjures up images of another body to grind against. But, oh, the hands. The _hands_. It always comes back to those; the indents made by fingers as they spread his thighs apart, the sightless sensation of a trailing fingertip drawing a path where it will, the slipping of a thumb into his mouth, the salt slick taste of it on his tongue, the texture of its pad - he could almost take a print like this, just a few more moments of it settled on his tongue and he could almost… Sherlock’s motions are loose and unhurried beneath the blankets, the haze of his head filling his blood and warming him through. It’s always been like this, ever since his senses became so vital to his work, so well trained - they all work to drown him now, to swallow him up entirely. Unsteady breaths beat in his ears and his pulse thumps loudly away and Sherlock catches hold of half-forgotten fragments and repairs them, plays them over, patches them together into an entire sensory experience. Weight - the weight of a body. The smell of himself in his own hand and in another hand entirely. Flashes of still images (but the sight of his knee hooked over a strong shoulder isn’t such a bad one, oh no, not by any means - and neither is the sight of that shoulder caught under his hand as he pushes it into the mattress. Fragments, so many fragments.)

 

Sherlock’s slack fist tightens and twists, drags sound out past a loose jaw.

 

God. _God_ , is there anything like this? ( _Yes,_ some muted corner of his mind hisses, sharp with scorn and panic, _lots of things, plenty of things, all of them better_. It’s drowned out easily by the immediate and immutable truth.)

 

A moan sounds full and rasping in his ears, his own voice layered with the cadence of another, and it has him arching, straining away from the bed, breath stuttering the sound into fractured little pants as his lungs empty. Those hands are insane. Everywhere, _everywhere_ , fingers tight against his scalp, teasing at his curls, wrapped around his throat and tender like they’re shifting a slide under a microscope, like his skin is worth millions. Sherlock’s pace loses its rhythm, trips over strokes. He can feel the warmth of another, the rise of shoulderblades, the ghosting of breath at his ear, cheek, nose, the soft prickle of short hair running under his palm and between his fingers. The way it gets caught in his fist when his hips judder up to seek out more friction. What else, what else? It’s too late for anything new. It’s coming for him, he can feel it coming for him, so instead old images click in a slideshow, circle back and around, thumb between his lips, hair beneath his fingers ( _blond, short, ashen_ ), bodies colliding, his knee hooked over a shoulder, that same shoulder trapped under his hand as he pushes it into the mattress (there’s a patch of strange texture there, some hidden imperfection, what is it, what _is_ it - ah. The impression of a scar he’s never seen. Why hasn’t he seen it? Why not? How has he still not seen it when they’ve lived under the same roof for _years_ \- )

 

Every muscle seizes. Sherlock’s throat clamps around breath and sound and renders him silent as his startled eyes stare blindly at the ceiling, orgasm pulsing through him, beating at him like a wave. The world shudders. His body unlocks. That trapped breath leaves him in a gust, a small staggered whimper, and he barely notices.

  
His mind, thrumming, knows nothing but a morphing bullet wound scar, a sweat damp shade of blond and a familiar, well-loved voice gasping out pleasure inches from his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> just a casual sex dream & masturbation fic resurrected from the WIP dump of willssholmes.tumblr.com, nothing to report


End file.
